The Emperor of Everything

His own stomach rumbled, sending him an uncomfortable message. They were all hungry. Was the food safe? He picked up a flagon, unstoppered it, sniffed. Wine.

“This is what you must do,” he told Molnekh. “Take Flomel a flagon, bread and cheese, a handful of grapes. Tell him we’ve already eaten; does he want any? If he asks where the food came from, tell him I discovered a cache of picnic goodies on the upper deck and broke into it.”

Molnekh nodded. “He’ll believe it. And if he survives his meal?”

“We’ll all eat.”

They all ate, and the mysterious food did them no harm. Ruiz and Nisa again went to the upper deck, where Nisa leaned against the rail and watched the passing forest. Ruiz sat beside her and tried to puzzle out the meaning of their odd circumstances.

What were the possibilities? The simplest explanation — that they traveled with generous and benevolent hermits — seemed a farfetched absurdity. Why would hermits travel in such extravagant style? And if their habit was to provide free food, wine, and excursions to the general public, why were the barges not thronged with guests?

Were the barges simply traps of some sort, designed to capture the naive and footloose? Then they were remarkably ineffective, for such elaborate traps — as far as he could tell, the barges had caught only eight vagabonds, and five of those by the merest chance. Still, that explanation seemed most logical to him.

It occurred to him that he could test that theory by seeing if the barge would allow him to jump off. Not tonight — in the dark he’d find it difficult to avoid splattering himself on a tree trunk. Perhaps in the morning he could try.

Of course, if they came upon any sort of civilization, they would all debark, if that proved possible.

“Are you sleepy?” Nisa asked.

“A little,” he said, surprised to find it true.

“Then tonight, you sleep first, and I’ll watch.”

He turned and pressed his cheek against her elegant hip. “Yes,” he said.

To his vast surprise, he did sleep, deeply, lying on the bench with his head pillowed in Nisa’s lap.

He may even have dreamed, though from long habit, he immediately suppressed the impulse to remember his dream when Nisa shook him awake. He surged from sleep and sat up, shaking his head. Had it been a pleasant dream, for once? He would never know.

The light was gray and cold and the air had a fragile daybreak chill in it. Ruiz was astonished to find the night gone; he had never meant to sleep so long. He stood up, looked out at the passing forest.

Nisa shifted awkwardly, as though her muscles were sore. “I wanted to let you sleep a bit longer,” she said. “But I heard Dolmaero call.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing serious, I’d guess — he didn’t sound alarmed. Perhaps it’s breakfast.” She stretched, then rubbed her back and winced.

He touched her cheek. “You should have moved my head. You made a soft bed, but you shouldn’t have made yourself stiff for my comfort.”

She laughed and pushed his hand away playfully. “You made yourself stiff for my comfort,” she said. “I want to do what I can. How many things have you done for me? I’ve lost count. But what have I done for you?”

“Much,” he said, and meant it.

It was indeed breakfast — another tray sat on the deck. It held a plate heaped with still-hot muffins, a white bowl filled with pale blue hard-boiled eggs, jars of purple jelly and honey, a huge jug of some frothy pink juice.

Dolmaero stood beside it, looking vaguely triumphant. Molnekh looked ravenous.

“One mystery is solved,” announced Dolmaero.

“Oh?” said Ruiz.

Dolmaero pointed up at the statue’s belly. “It came from there. The metal opened, the tray descended — hung from a thin rod. The tray reached the deck, the rod withdrew, the metal was as before.”

“‘How’ is explained, but not ‘why,’” Molnekh pointed out. “But I’m not complaining. Who’d have thought such things could happen? For desperate fugitives, we’re doing well.”

“Possibly,” said Ruiz. “In any case, we might as well eat before the muffins get cold.” He picked up the tray. “Is Flomel well secured?”

“Of course,” answered Molnekh in injured tones. “I carry out your instructions meticulously.”

“In that case, let’s go to the upper deck, where the view is better, and we won’t have to listen to Flomel’s whining,” Ruiz said.

Corean cursed, and kicked at the remnants of Kroel’s head, an ill-considered action that left a stain on her armored foot and prompted a longer burst of invective. The cargo hold of her damaged airboat stank of death and burned insulation — and of the Mocrassar, who stood by the lock in a watchful posture.

Marmo floated forward on his repaired chassis and examined the hole in the engine compartment wall. “Vast luck,” he muttered darkly. “Have you considered the possibility that he’s just too lucky.”

“None of your foolish pirate superstitions, Marmo.” Corean turned a wrathful gaze on Marmo. “Instead, you might start formulating useful advice — since that’s what I pay you for.”

“Indeed.” But he said no more then.